


The Best Seats in the House

by bluebeholder



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dating, M/M, Orlesian theater to be precise, Pre-Dragon Age II - Act 3, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Romantic Fluff, Some angst, Theater - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Hawke drags Anders away from his work for an afternoon at the theater. For a little while, they can both escape their troubles.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	The Best Seats in the House

“I’m not entirely sure I should be seen in public with you, Hawke,” Anders muttered, following Hawke through the crowd. The black feathers of his coat looked distinctly ruffled.

“You’ve moved into my _house_ ,” Hawke returned, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re a public figure. The Champion’s paramour. Even if nobody actually knows who you are, you should _hear_ the gossip that runs through Hightown.”

Anders sighed, but a faint smile graced his face. “Fair enough,” he said. It was rare enough these days to see Anders smile. Hawke felt a surge of relief: that alone said that this afternoon was going well.

They at last navigated through the crowd to their seats. Although heads turned at the presence of the Champion of Kirkwall, stern looks and the presence of a man who certainly _looked_ like a mage but _definitely wasn’t_ turned away most curiosity. In the interest of privacy, Hawke got them a place at the very back of the theater, not among the groundlings in the yard but in the back of the lowest seating gallery. It was in shadow, well out of the public eye.

“Not the best seats in the house, but I thought you’d prefer this.” Hawke glanced sideways at Anders. He looked a bit distracted, but that was par for the course these days.

“Considering the gossip you mentioned, I certainly prefer this,” Anders said. He looked up at the balcony above them, where footsteps pattered on the wood. “Everyone up _there_ would be scandalized to know the Champion of Kirkwall decided to sit down _here_.”

“Good,” Hawke said smartly. He grinned. “I like watching them all squirm, trying to make me sound noble and virtuous.”

“Of course you do,” Anders said, giving him this soft-eyed expression that Hawke identified as something between ‘wistful’ and ‘happy.’ He returned his gaze to the still-empty stage, but the expression remained. Hawke could be satisfied with that.

The play tonight was Orlesian, inspired by an Antivan epic poem about the Exalted March of the Dales back in the Glory Age. It was about the legendary Templar Bradamante and her love for the elf-blooded warrior Isanami. She was a famed warrior who could unhorse anyone in combat; he was a famed warrior raised among the Dalish elves despite his human mother. It was supposed to be a tragicomedy, or at least that’s what word of mouth in Hightown said.

“Just a heads up,” Hawke said, leaning in close to Anders, “I’m pretty sure the villain is a mage.”

Anders sighed. “I’d mostly expected as much.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable…”

“No, no,” Anders said, waving a hand quickly. “The only plays that _don’t_ do that are Tevinter ones, and those always make blood magic and demon summoning look heroic. Besides, the popular idea of what magic can do is always fairly laughable.”

Hawke thought of all the popular portrayals he’d seen (was there even magic to force someone to always disagree with everything said to them?) and stifled a laugh. “True.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence as the theater filled around them. The noise rose from a muted hum to a dull roar. It seemed that tonight would be a packed house.

This theater, one of the better ones in Kirkwall, could seat three thousand at maximum capacity. It was roughly round, amphitheater seating surrounding the stage in three galleries. The poorest theater-goers could pay one copper to stand in the rush-covered yard around the projecting stage. The lower gallery, where Anders and Hawke sat, cost two coppers, except for the prestigious boxes nearest to the stage which cost a fair bit more—where people would expect the Champion of Kirkwall to sit. Above them were two more tiers of galleries, each costing progressively more since they afforded progressively better views of the stage.

At the moment, the stage was bare. The projecting portion was empty of all set pieces, and a curtain ran across the very back, presumably to hide the players. Two pillars, one on either side of the stage, supported a roof above the stage to protect the players from inclement weather. There was also space there for players to be lowered down on ropes, should the scene require it. On the back wall, above the curtain, there was a balcony for musicians and two-story scenes. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see it at all.

“Last time I was here, I had to sit in one of the ‘Gentlemen’s Boxes,’” Hawke said, pointing across at the box closest to the stage. “I think people stared at me more than they stared at the players.”

“You’re certainly easier on the eyes than most players I’ve met,” Anders said, turning to look at Hawke. His gaze raked Hawke up and down, his hand landed on Hawke's upper thigh, and Hawke held up both hands.

“No, no, no,” he said. “I paid good copper for this show. We are _staying_ to see this, at least through the first act.” Anders laughed, but let it go with a fond touch to Hawke’s hand.

There was a brief interval, while the vendor still had them, for Hawke to leap up and retrieve them some oysters. They were cheap, but Hawke had a distinct fondness for the shellfish. He returned with them and, for a few minutes, silence turned into happy munching (and the cracking of oyster shells under Hawke’s dagger).

“I just hope these don’t get us sick,” Anders said, dropping a shell carelessly to the floor to join several others. After the performance, the shells would all be swept down into the yard and become part of the floor of the theater.

“We’ll be fine,” Hawke said. “You worry too much.”

His companion didn’t look convinced. “Kirkwall’s harbor is _vile_ , Hawke. Who knows what these oysters grew in?”

“Hey,” Hawke said, setting down his dagger and taking Anders’ hand, “can you…put away the worries? For just tonight. That’s all I’m asking.”

For a moment, Anders just looked at him. Then he nodded, looking down. “I can do that.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said, with a sense of great relief.

Anders leaned into Hawke, dropping his head to rest on Hawke’s shoulder. “No, thank _you_ ,” he said, sounding even more tired than usual. “You’re right, I’m worrying too much. I think I’d have snapped, spending another day in the clinic without seeing the sun…”

Hawke wrapped his arm around Anders’ shoulders. “Thank _you_ for agreeing to go along.”

Really, Anders would forever remind Hawke of a cat. Though he kept his hands to himself (thankfully, because Hawke wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist the lure if Anders hadn’t decided to behave), his body language screamed happiness. The second Hawke had hold of him, his shoulders dropped, his hands relaxed in his lap, and he practically started purring.

As always, Hawke made a note to hug Anders more often. It made him smile. The world was a better place when Anders smiled.

Fanfare blasted out from the unseen balcony over the stage. Anders sat up straight again, though Hawke didn’t let go of him. An actress, dressed in a passable imitation of Templar armor and a blonde wig that fell to the back of her knees, strode onto the stage. Her voice was striking, her stature imposing, and her delivery of her opening soliloquy was _abysmal_. Hawke was no actor, but even he could hear the odd cadence, halts, and frequent pauses marking the delivery.

“This,” Anders muttered, “is—”

Anders’ thoughts on the matter were never spoken. To a second fanfare, an actor emerged from the other side of the stage to stand opposite the actress playing Bradamante. It took Hawke a moment, but when he realized what he was looking at, he thought his eyes would fall out of his head.

“Did they dress him as _Fenris_?” he hissed to Anders.

Anders looked similarly stunned. “I mean—I think—what other elf is sprinting around Kirkwall with a sword taller than he is?”

“But he’s _not_ Dalish,” Hawke said despairingly.

At least the man was, however, good. He delivered his lines emphatically, powerfully, and Andraste’s _toes_ he was a dead ringer for Fenris. The clumsy way the elf wielded his sword spoke to the fact that it wasn’t their companion up on stage. But still, the resemblance was uncanny.

The play progressed in a fairly predictable way. Isanami was held captive in a mystic tower by a mage called Atalante, who apparently had built the maze of illusions to protect Isanami from an eventual terrible fate. Meanwhile, Bradamante—embroiled in the Exalted March—heard tales of the fearsome warrior imprisoned by a mage. She set off on a quest to free him, accompanied, of course, by much recitation of the Chant of Light.

“This might as well be a Chantry,” Hawke said under his breath.

“Cue Elthina, stage right,” Anders replied, smirking.

It took a great deal of posturing, and a complex detour through the dramas playing out along the front lines of the Exalted March that gave all the bit-part actors the chance to strut their stuff, but Bradamante at last reached Atalante’s mountain. There was apparently some sort of dramatic descent from above carried out by the mage, though from their seats Anders and Hawke could see none of it except the landing.

“I want those robes,” Anders said, staring longingly at Atalante’s flowing golden robes.

Hawke planted a kiss on Anders’ perpetually-stubbled cheek. “I’ll get them for you.”

“So I can wear them in a sewer?”

“No, so you can go swanning through Hightown wearing them and make everyone jealous of me,” Hawke said with a wink.

Anders swatted at his shoulder lightly, but he looked pleased by the implied compliment.

Meanwhile, the battle between Bradamante and Atalante—and Maker, who thought it was a good idea to make their names _rhyme_ like that—came to a resounding conclusion. Atalante, skewered through the heart, proclaimed that he could no longer protect Isanami from his terrible fate. And then he died, with startling suddenness, midway through what Hawke was expecting to be a drawn-out death scene.

“You know, I was expecting him to do more _magic_ than that,” Anders said. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin on hands.

“They did what they could without an actual mage in the wings, I suppose.” Hawke patted Anders on the shoulder.

Anders rolled his eyes. “All they did was throw around some ribbon. It would be simple enough to fling about a little cold fire, conjure some sparkling lights… _effects_ that would really make the scene go.” He made a vague kind of wiggling gesture with his fingers, putting Hawke very much in mind of Isabela’s constant refrain that they should make sure to try ‘the electricity trick.’

Hawke conveniently neglected to tell her that Anders had a lot more tricks involving primal forces than just electricity.

“Perhaps you have a career in theater.”

“I’ll leave the dramatics to the rest of our merry band of rogues,” Anders said, flashing Hawke a there-and-gone grin.

If the death scene had been short to the point of abruptness, this first meeting between Bradamante and Isanami was just about _endless_. First they had to duel, for Bradamante was shocked to find that the man she intended to rescue was one of the people she had been fighting for so long, and Isanami was wary of unexpected guests. Then, when they fought to a standstill, they each had a chance to gaze longingly at the other and speak rapturously about beauty and starry eyes and…

“Anders. I could make up better poetry in my _sleep_.”

“I think you _have_ ,” Anders said. He looked thoughtful. “You know, I could make up better poetry while, I don’t know, sucking your—”

Hawke elbowed Anders in the side, feeling his cheeks flush. “Talking about apostates and mages in public is all well and good, but talking about _that_ stays behind closed doors.”

Anders chuckled, but subsided. His smile was sticking now, making those crows’ feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes, showing off smile lines Hawke hadn’t seen often enough lately. Maybe ever. It was good. Better than good, really.

The first act of the play came to a resounding close with a kiss between Bradamante and Isanami, far more passionate than Hawke had ever seen exchanged between two players. It was impressive. Like something out of Varric’s novels.

“Hawke, I do believe that they’re lovers in real life,” Anders said, joining in the applause as the act came to a close. The players went offstage together, Bradamante’s arm firmly around Isanami.

“I’d agree,” Hawke said. He stretched and looked around. People in the seats were getting up to fetch more ale and snacks. From the galleries above, some of the notables were descending to make their exit, having plainly seen enough of the play. “It feels like we’ve been here for a year.”

Anders tilted his head to the side and Hawke heard a pop. He made a sound of relief. “Better.”

“You all right?”

“My bones are old,” Anders said. He shook himself out and stood, pressing his hands to his lower back. “Standing hunched over patients all day lately hasn’t done much for me, either.”

Hawke rose, too. “What say we get out of here?” he asked. “I asked Orana to take the evening off, so we’ll have to scrounge a bit, but there’ll be something for dinner.”

“Scrounging for dinner, how _romantic_ ,” Anders said. He leaned in and kissed Hawke on the cheek, lingering affectionately for a moment. “I agree, though. I’ve seen more than enough of this play.”

They made their way out of the theater, bumping shoulders with the crowd as the players strolled out to begin the second act. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Kirkwall. Side by side, the two men wandered back up through Hightown to the estate. Their walk was not interrupted, save for a passing carriage nearly running Hawke over.

Part of that may have been the sword strapped to Hawke’s back. Then again, perhaps not. Living in a better neighborhood had its advantages, Hawke had to admit. Crime up here tended to be of the genteel embezzlement kind, and not of the stabbed-in-an-alleyway kind.

All the windows of the estate were dark by the time they arrived. Orana must have taken Hawke at his word, and Bodahn and Sandal were gone for the night. At the front steps, Anders caught Hawke by the arm.

“Yes?” Hawke asked, turning. Standing on a step above Anders like this, he was actually the taller one, for once. By perhaps a hair’s breadth.

“I want to say thank you,” Anders said. His hand was warm on Hawke’s arm.

“Oh?”

“For being patient with me.” Anders’ gaze slid away a little. “I know I’ve been difficult lately.”

Hawke smiled, feeling the warm glow of the afternoon dimming. “No more than anyone else,” he said easily. “I still haven’t quite forgiven Varric for last week’s escapade.”

“Don’t…” Anders sighed. He looked back at Hawke. This close, Hawke could easily see how his brown eyes lit almost gold in the dying sun. “You could have just left me in the clinic. Maker knows I wouldn’t have half your patience, if I were in your place.”

Hawke tucked a strand of Ander’s hair behind his ear. “That,” he said, “would be unconscionable. I could never abandon you like that.”

He got a long, almost sad look for that. “What will I do without you, Hawke?”

“Without me?” Hawke laughed, though he felt like the ground was tipping under him. “You can’t get rid of me, Anders.”

“We’ll see.” Anders’ voice was soft, melancholy. Hawke was losing him.

Desperate to recover something of the fine afternoon, Hawke struck a ridiculous pose. “Nothing shall ever tear us apart,” he proclaimed, mimicking one of the players. “This I vow!”

Anders smiled, and though it was faint, Hawke counted it as a win. “Preparing for a theatrical career, are you?”

“This Champion business is getting a little old,” Hawke said. He grinned. “We should run away and join the theater together, travel the world!”

“It would suit you,” Anders said. He squeezed Hawke’s arm and let go.

Hawke caught his hand before he could go too far. “Come on in,” he said. “I’m sure there’s something for sandwiches.”

Anders followed. As Hawke coaxed smiles and laughs out of his lover, spending the evening antic and jovial, he forgot about the conversation on the steps. And after sandwiches and ale, after a tart eaten without silverware by the fire, after a long and pleasant time in bed, when he _did_ remember, Hawke was disinclined to pry. He didn’t have the strength tonight to force the moment to its crisis.

This, Hawke decided, when Anders was finally asleep beside him, was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The tale of Bradamante, while fictional, isn’t something I invented. Her story comes from the Italian epic poems “Orlando Furioso” (Ludovico Ariosto) and “Orlando Innamorato” (Matteo Maria Boiardo). The poems generally deal with the Crusades led by Charlemagne and his paladins, though with lots of detours through chivalric romance and fantastical trappings. The poems were adapted in 1582 by French dramatist Robert Garnier, who turned the story of Bradamante and her love interest Ruggiero into a tragicomedy. 
> 
> A neat parallel exists between the Crusades and the Exalted Marches, so it was seamless to recast Bradamante as a Templar and Ruggiero as a warrior on the opposing side. However, “Ruggiero” is (in my opinion) not a great name for Thedas. It’s often translated into English as “Rogero,” so I went digging through name meanings to find that “Roger” generally translates to “famous spear.” Since the Thedas edition of Bradamante takes place during the Exalted March on the Dales, I had to dig into elvhen naming tradition for a corresponding meaning. The “Project Elvhen” series by FenxShiral here on AO3 brought to light the name I used for the love interest: Isanami, the hungry, vengeful blade. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> Yes, if you’re going by architecture, they basically went to the Globe Theatre. What can I say? Oysters and ale (among other delights) were customary theater food in Elizabethan England. Seemed right to transplant such a custom to Kirkwall.


End file.
